


flower fields are like fields of dreams (I just want to lay in them and never wake up)

by technicolouredmonochrome



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, flower shop au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 07:45:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3349208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/technicolouredmonochrome/pseuds/technicolouredmonochrome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Minho is the unexpectedly hot owner of a flower shop, and now Newt has vases of flowers back home that he now has no idea what to do with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	flower fields are like fields of dreams (I just want to lay in them and never wake up)

To say today had been a bad day would be an understatement.

Today had been a downright _awful_ day.

To begin with, Newt had woken up a full _hour_ later than usual, and today was an important day _goddammit_ , he’d taken half the day off so he could go take a bus to the city to get his mother a gift for her birthday. Going in late meant leaving late, and leaving late meant that all the shops would be closed by the time he got there.

So he’d stumbled into the bathroom in a panic, and then promptly slipped on the wet tiles and hit the back of his head on the edge of the bathtub. In the midst of the tears filling his eyes and the throbbing pain, he groans out a loud “ _Thomas fucking Edison_ ” that has his roommate bounding into the bathroom.

“Ye – ”

“You left the bathroom a mess _again_ ,” he groans as he sits up, vision swimming for one dizzying moment before it rights itself and settles again.

“Sorry,” Thomas says, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck and giving him a worried look. “You okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” Newt grumbles, even though the back of his head feels tender when he touches it. He chases Thomas out and then takes the fastest shower he possibly can.

The pair of jeans he puts on is not the _right_ one, old and faded and ripped in places. The graphic shirt he puts on is too big, but he doesn’t realize until he’s on the bus that it’s actually Thomas’ shirt he’d worn. He forgets to give his sister a call, which gets him a very thorough dressing down over the phone in the middle of his shift, and his manager keeps shooting him dirty looks as he tries (and fails) to get his sister to hang up.

And when his shift ends, it’s a full hour after the closing time of the shops in the city and _today is just really not his day_.

He decides to walk home today (because he had missed his bus, and he’d be damned if he has to wait almost a full hour for the next one) and it is a particularly long and dreary walk, making him mumble under his breath at his “ _absolutely rotten fortune_ ”. So he doesn’t notice the kid on a skateboard until he rams headfirst into him.

When he gets his bearings again, the kid is skating off with a dismissive “Sorry dude!” and he finds himself sitting in a puddle of water.

“Fuck!” he cusses, making an elderly lady tut and shake her head disapprovingly at him, but he doesn’t notice because there’s a bright, quaint little store that catches his eye.

It’s a flower shop, a small, cheery little thing tucked away in the corner of the street, and Newt’s never noticed it before because he usually takes the bus home, but the gears are working in his brain and he has a brilliant idea.

His mother would _love_ flowers. Newt’s always been a bit more practical when it came to giving gifts; soaps, towels, and tea sets were his usual _go-to_ s for his mother’s birthday presents. And although she’d thank him and kiss him on the cheek, her eyes would positively _light up_ whenever his sister bought her neat little ornaments, like a music box, or pretty cross-stitched embroidery that ends up on the quickly dwindling wall space around the house.

So even as he sits in that puddle of water, the water seeping through his jeans and making the cotton of his boxers stick to his skin, the uncomfortable feeling is pushed to the side as he weighs his options.

(Not that there are many to begin with, but Newt’s always been a bit of a drama queen.)

Five minutes later finds him standing in front of the shop, the seat of his pants soaked through and the back of Thomas’ shirt starting to dampen as well. He only hesitates for a moment, worries that he knows next to _nothing_ about flowers, and then comforts himself with the knowledge that the kindly old lady who probably runs this place will help him out if he’s charming enough. It is with that thought that he pushes the door open, and it is that same thought that makes him freeze in his tracks as he comes face to face with a very _very_ nice arse.

And then nice arse stands up and turns to look at him, a smile on his face that makes his eyes form little crescents and Newt distantly notes that nice arse also has a nice face.

“Hello!” Mr. Nice-Arse-and-Nice-Face says.

“You’re not an old lady,” he blurts out.

He gets a frown in response, and then the guy is raising an eyebrow and one side of his mouth is quirked up in an amused smile as he says, “I guess not?”

 _Just kill me now_ , he thinks to himself, tips of his ears burning with shame. Suddenly he is aware of his wet jeans and the shirt hanging off his frame in an unflattering manner and he kind of wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole. “Sorry,” he mumbles instead, and wishes everything would be done with so that he can save himself further embarrassment. _Seriously_ , give him a good-looking guy and he immediately blows his chances by being an idiot.

“No problem,” the guy replies, laughing good naturedly, and Newt starts waxing poetic in his head about the way the corners of the guy’s eyes crinkle up as he does it. “I’m Minho, and, before you ask, _yes_ , I am the owner of this flower shop.”

“I’m Newt,” he manages to squeak out, and then because his mother drilled the whole “ _Be polite_ ” routine into him, he sticks his hand out to shake, which the guy ­– _Minho_ – takes with another amused grin.

 _You are an idiot,_ he screams at himself. _A fucking idiot_. But Minho’s looking at him oddly, so he ends up giving a confused “Wha?” in response.

“I said,” Minho repeats, deliberately slow, “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“Oh.” And then Newt’s smacking himself – _again_ – because he’d almost forgotten why he’d entered the shop to begin with. (To be fair, he’s pretty sure that getting it on with a hot guy would be his mother’s idea of a great present as well, but he digresses.) “Uh, I’m looking for a present for my mother.”

“Do you have something in mind?”

“Not really,” he replies a bit sheepishly. “I was hoping I could get some help?”

“Sure,” Minho says cheerily, shooting Newt a quick wink before turning around to the shelves of flowers behind him. And thank goodness too, because Newt’s sure that he hasn’t blushed this hard _ever_. “Do you know if your mother likes any particular types of flowers?”

“I – I’m not sure?” and he looks a little guiltily around him. “I’ve never bought her flowers before.”

“Ah,” is the response he gets, and then Minho’s tapping his chin thoughtfully. “What would you like to tell her?”

To say Newt’s confused is an understatement. “What do you mean?”

“Different flowers represent different things,” Minho tells him. “If there’s a certain message you want to convey to your mum, we can pick out flowers that mean just that.”

“Oh,” and Newt hadn’t thought of that, and _wow_ , flower buying is a lot more complicated than he’d originally thought. “Maybe something that could tell her that I’m thankful for all the things she’s done? And that she’s a great mother in general, and a wonderful person, things like that.”

Minho hums and nods, “That sounds good, I have just the right flowers for you.”

“Sorry,” Newt says, even though he’s not exactly sure what he’s apologizing for, because he feels like he’s being a burden for some reason or another. “I have no idea how flower buying works.”

“It’s cool,” Minho replies, and Newt loses himself in watching the way the material of Minho’s shirt shifts with the accompanying shrug. “At least you know what you want to say and you’re cool with me picking out the right flowers for you. I mean, some people don’t care, but I can’t stand it.” It sounds an awful lot like the beginning of a rant that Minho’s probably repeated to interested customers many times. “Like some people waltz in here and order a bouquet of red tulips, and when I ask who they’re for, they say they’re giving the bouquet to a relative in the hospital. _A relative in the hospital_. And so like any responsible florist I don’t jump to conclusions; I ask if this relative has a preference for tulips, and _red_ ones in particular. But they say _no_ and then I suggest other flowers that’d represent healing, like mullein, and they say ‘No, I know what I want’. Like good lord who would give _red tulips_ to a sick relative? It doesn’t even make any sense.”

And Newt hasn’t a clue what he’s saying, but Minho looks so genuinely upset and in pain that he had to sell _red tulips_ to someone that Newt finds himself feeling bad for him anyway. But his lack of response makes Minho turn to him with an apologetic grin as he stops himself mid-rant.

“Sorry, I must be boring you,” to which Newt fervently shakes his head, but Minho has turned back to the shelves, and is working quicker now, picking out various flowers and putting together a small bouquet for him.

“I don’t mind,” Newt finally finds it in him to blurt out, and despite the awkward way in which he says it, it earns him a small smile anyway. “Uh, you could tell me what those flowers mean so I know what to pick out for my mother in the future?”

This earns him a full-blown grin, and Minho starts explaining the flowers to him: the varying shades of pink and yellow of the roses in the bouquet representing generic traits like gratefulness, grace and joy; the day lilies being an old Chinese emblem for mothers in general; the bits of green moss thrown in that stands for maternal love. Before he knows it, he’s at the counter and paying for his purchase, thanking Minho again for helping him out.

“You’re really a life-saver,” Newt tells him when they’re at the counter, with Newt watching Minho expertly wrap the bouquet in a soft lilac wrapper. “I’m positive my mother will be in love with this bouquet.”

“You’re welcome,” Minho replies with a laugh. “And I’m sorry for rambling quite a bit earlier on, sort of got carried away.”

Newt shakes his head again, because he isn’t sure what to say, when Minho ducks behind the counter and comes back with a single stalk of flower.

“This is an angelica,” Minho tells him, and kind of pushes it into Newt’s hand. “It represents inspiration.”

Newt just kind of stares at the flower, and then at Minho again.

“It’s for you,” Minho says simply, making Newt blush.

“Oh, but I really couldn’t – ”

“Just take it as a gift,” he interrupts, “From me. Hopefully, it gives you inspiration to do the things you want to do.”

Newt is incredibly touched, he has no idea why, and he closes his fist around the fragile stem firmly.

“Thank you,” he tells Minho sincerely, to which he is waved off.

“Wish your mother happy birthday for me!” Minho calls out as he leaves the shop, the damp feeling in his boxers all but forgotten.

 

* * *

 

(When Newt gets home, the first thing he does is to put the bouquet in the fridge, like Minho had instructed. Then, he takes a long, hot shower – heaving a sigh of relief after he _finally_ peels himself out of his wet jeans – and proceeds to look for an old, empty beer bottle. He finds one lying around, from one of his and Thomas’ binge drinking sessions, and cleans it out and fills it with water for his single stalk of angelica. He places it on his desk, and then rummages around for an old, worn notebook he’d all but forgotten about years ago; it’d been cast aside when he’d first moved in to this new place.

When his fingers close around the pencil, it feels rusty and unused, but it also feels like _home_.

He sketches a pair of eyes that crinkle into moons, and the single stem of angelica sitting on his desk, the glass of the beer bottle catching the dying rays of the sun and setting the water within on fire.

“You’ve started drawing again,” Thomas says some time later, and Newt almost jumps out of his skin because he hadn’t heard him come home.

He feels his hackles rising and hunches around his drawing. “What’s that to you?”

“Nothing,” Thomas says, and when he smiles, it’s open and honest. “I’m just happy for you.”

Newt feels himself relax at that, bit by bit, muscles losing their tension, fingers losing their near-bruising-grip on the paper. He smiles in response. “Me too.”)

 

* * *

 

As expected, his mother is positively _ecstatic_ about the flowers.

“These are absolutely lovely,” she gushes. “I thought you were going to buy me more soap!”

“Soap is a perfectly practical gift!” he tells her, feeling a bit affronted.

“Not if you give it to her as a present _every single year_ ,” his sister quips back, and Newt – although he likes to tell himself that he’s _above_ such things – childishly sticks his tongue out at her.

It’s nice to have his family over for the weekend. Since he moved to America, he rarely gets to see them anymore, so the whole family coming over and staying at his apartment for the weekend is a nice change of pace, especially since he gets to kick Thomas out at the end of the day so his mother and sister get to share his room. The cleaning up the day prior was a massive headache, but having his family in his apartment is well worth the effort anyway, even if his mother does get a little fussy over her youngest son.

“You look stick-thin!” she tells him later that evening, insisting on cooking a nice, ‘home-cooked’ meal for dinner instead of eating out.

His sister grumbles something about “Mother never cooks _for me_ ” as his mother continues to titter on about healthy eating.

“Do you eat out everyday?” she asks, and Newt is about to protest, when she wags the spatula in her hand at him. “This thing is as _new_ as the day I gave it to you. Don’t you lie to me young man.”

Newt sits through a thorough dressing down at dinner (that he doesn’t interrupt, because _it’s his mother’s birthday_ and _he’s not stupid_ ) that his sister snickers at occasionally, until his mother turns her wrath on her with a “And don’t get me started on you – ” that makes Newt snigger quietly as his sister shoots him the evilest glares she can muster.

Thomas drops by after dinner (“Just to get some things Mrs. Newton”) but ends up staying for dessert anyway, because Newt’s mother makes a mean truffle and can be persuasive when she wants to.

“So you’re staying at your girlfriend’s?” she asks Thomas after he recounts a particularly appalling tale about Newt spilling coffee down a lecturer’s dress (“ _Thomas fucking Edison I swear to god you’re going to regret this_ ,” Newt hisses under his breath, even as Thomas just grins and slaps him amicably on the back).

“Yes ma’am, Teresa’s been kind enough to put up with me for the weekend.”

“No need to be so formal dear,” she tells him kindly, before turning on Newt. “It’d be nice if Isaac had someone that would take care of him too.”

Newt can feel the telltale burning of his ears and slumps lower in his seat. “ _Mother_ – ”

“Oh, I think Newt met someone recently,” Thomas cuts in with a smirk in Newt’s direction. “He hasn’t stopped sketching him since yesterday.”

Newt glares vehemently at Thomas, but Thomas’ not looking at him, and instead is giving Newt’s mother a very hopeful and happy look.

“It’s good to see him pick up the pencil again,” and then promptly ends the conversation by stuffing a spoonful of truffle into his mouth.

“You didn’t tell me you met someone!” his sister says accusingly. “And I just called you yesterday too!”

“Maybe it’s because I just _met_ him yesterday,” Newt grumbles, “And _besides_ , we’re not _together_ or anything. I don’t even know if he likes boys!”

“Oh Isaac,” and his mother is giving him sympathetic looks that just make Newt uncomfortable. He spends the rest of dessert glaring at Thomas until he finally gets the hint and bids his family a good night.

Newt spends the rest of the evening avoiding questions about the boy he’s been sketching, and catches up on other things instead: the family dog, the neighborhood, old aunt Annie that lives next door.

He pushes the first meeting of Minho out of his mind, and tells himself that it’s just a mindless crush, that soon, he’ll be going back to school and that he’ll meet other people and _it’s nothing, really_.

 

* * *

 

He sees his mother and sister off the next day, the latter giving him a hug and telling him to “Remember to keep in contact, you _rascal_ ”. When the bus they’re taking has turned the corner and disappeared from view, he starts walking back to his apartment, feeling lighter than he has in days.

He thinks about his mother and his sister, and then he thinks about Thomas and how he’s going to kill him when he gets home, which gets him thinking about Teresa, and he makes a mental note to get her a present because _putting up with Thomas must be a pain in the arse, even for a weekend_. And then he thinks about passing her one of Thomas’ shirts, because he knows how much she likes to wear his things (and how unwilling Thomas is to give them to her because _god knows why_ ) and then he thinks about the shirt he’d stolen the day before and –

 _Oh_.

Somehow, his feet have led him to the small little corner of the road, with the quaint little flower shop tucked at the end of the street. _Goddammit_. He stands at the roadside, kind of frozen, and ends up staring in the general direction of the shop for a good minute or so, torn up about what to do.

 _I should go in_ , he thinks to himself. _Go in and pretend I need to buy something else for someone else_. But then he sort of freezes up and can’t make himself move. _But what if he thinks I’m weird? Oh god, he probably already thought I was weird before what if he thinks I’m_ weirder _now?_

He ends up standing there for a good five more minutes, an internal battle raging in his mind, the urge _to go_ and _not to go_ warring it out in his head as he stands in the middle of the pavement. Just when he’s about to give up and leave, Minho comes out of the shop, looking especially delicious in a button down, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and _are those tattoos he sees peeking out from under those sleeves?_

The apron he’s wearing is a cute little thing with white polka dots on a deep blue and it suits him ridiculously well, despite the absurdity of the pattern, and he bends down to fuss over a small batch of flowers at the front of his shop and _there._

 _There’s that nice arse I’ve been dreaming about_.

When he’s looked his fill, Newt firms up his resolve and decides that _I should really leave_ because now he’d just look like a creep. But Minho chooses that exact moment to turn around. He catches Newt’s eye, does a double take, and Newt sees the instant his face splits into a grin as he gives Newt a small wave (and if _that_ doesn’t do all kinds of crazy things to his insides).

 _If I ignore him now, I’d just look like a dick._ At least that’s what Newt tells himself when he waves back and starts to cross the street.

“Hey you,” Minho greets him, pushing open the door of the shop with his shoulder and nodding inside. “I was just fixing up some of the plants out front. Some kids messed up the arrangement yesterday.”

Newt nods mutely as he walks into the shop. Now that he’s not in a rush (or awestruck by the fact that the hottest guy on earth runs a bloody _flower shop_ ), he can take a minute to appreciate the interior design, the wooden furniture, the scattered stems and flower petals on the floor, the framed painting of a vase of flowers tucked away neatly in a corner of the shop.

“Everything in here’s passed on from my grandmother,” he continues, “So I feel kind of bad about moving or replacing anything, that’s why all the furniture in here looks _eons_ old.”

“Suits the vibe of the place actually,” Newt tells him, fingers running over the wooden tabletop he’s stopped at. “It’s nice. Comfortable. _Homey_ even.”

“Yeah,” and Newt does _not_ stare as Minho bends down to pick up a box of fresh flowers. “But you’d want _homey_ in like, a _café_ or something; you’d want _fresh and bright_ in a flower shop. _Exciting_ , or, I dunno, _creative_ or something.”

Newt just shrugs. “I like it anyhow.”

“You’re just being nice,” Minho grins at him, making Newt’s insides flip as the corners of his own lips turn up in a smile. “I’ll help you out in a minute, just need to bring these out back,” he continues after a beat, nodding to the box in his hands.

Newt dumbly nods, mouth still stretched in a smile, and it’s only when Minho has vanished out the back door that he realizes Minho thinks he’s here to buy flowers, _again_.

“Shit,” he mumbles, “Shit shit _shit_.”

The first thing he does is to pull out his wallet and check for cash. When he determines that he still has enough to maybe buy a small bouquet of _something_ for _someone_ , he starts racking his brain for some kind of story to tell Minho, or, even better, someone that he can actually _buy_ flowers for. And that’s when it hits him.

“Teresa.” _Yes_ , he can buy flowers for her or something, and _still_ give her Thomas’ old shirt. So when Minho comes back out, he blurts out “I need to buy flowers for this girl,” which, in retrospect, is not the best phrasing of words he could’ve used.

“Oh?” Minho says. And there’s something to his tone that Newt isn’t too sure about, neither is he sure about the way Minho’s grin gets a little tighter around the edges. “Is she your girlfriend or something?”

“God no,” he hurriedly amends. “She’s my roommate’s girlfriend.”

Minho’s eyebrows shoot up at that. “Uh – ”

“I mean,” Newt cuts in, getting more flustered by the minute (this is why his mother pulled him out of theatre class, he was really _awful_ with the whole improvisation thing) “She put up with my roommate this weekend, and I just thought I’d buy her a little something to thank her for putting up with him because he’s a _pain_ in the arse to live with, and now I owe her; not that I’m hitting on her or anything, because that’d be _horrid_ and I’m pretty sure that that’s breaking some sort of _bro code_ or something.” (And _holy shit_ , can he get any lamer? _Bro code_? Fucking hell.)

There’s a thoughtful hum, and Newt is relieved to see that Minho’s grin has regained its initial looseness as he turns to the shelves of flowers. “Admiration? Does that work?” and Newt isn’t sure if he needs to answer, because Minho is speaking rather softly and _he could be talking to himself_ ­– god knows Newt is _done_ embarrassing himself in front of him. Thankfully, he’s saved from making a decision when Minho continues his quiet murmur. “Patience? Nah, that’s too forward.”

Newt watches as Minho’s hand hovers uncertainly over a pot of what can only be described as _tiny_ sunflowers. “Uh, admiration works?”

“Sure. Sure, of course,” which makes him pick up the pot and turn back to Newt. “This pot of dwarf sunflowers it is then.”

“Dwarf sunflowers?” Newt repeats, and is intrigued, to say the least.

“Yep. They are basically tiny sunflowers, hence the name,” Minho tells him as they walk to the counter for Minho to pack up his purchase. “They represent admiration and gratitude, perfect for your roommate’s girlfriend I think.”

The wink Minho sends his way makes Newt blush hotly under his collar, and he hurriedly pulls out a few bills and slaps them on the countertop. “Thanks,” and he feels like his voice is too loud and strange in the face of the heat staining his cheeks.

“Oh wait,” Minho says, as Newt takes the bag from him (and not a minute too soon too, because Newt was about to hightail the fuck out of there), and ducks under the counter. Newt’s heart is strangely loud in his ears, and he’s confused but also excited because _is Minho going to give me more flowers?_

Sure enough, Minho pops back up with a small bouquet, white flowers hanging off the ends of their stems, and Newt is surprisingly _charmed_.

“Snowdrops,” he tells Newt while pushing the tiny bouquet into his hand. “They mean hope.”

“Yeah?” Newt replies, because suddenly all the words are stuck in his throat. And it’s stupid; because this is the nicest anyone’s been to him since he got here, giving him small trinkets that mean such important things to him (not that Minho could know). “Thanks.”

“No problem man,” and Minho smiles, easy and comfortable and _fucking beautiful_. “I’ll see you around?”

And if Newt didn’t know better, he’d say that Minho sounds a tad bit hopeful (ironic, so definitely _impossible_ ) and doesn’t even hesitate when he says, “Yeah definitely. See you around Minho.”

 

* * *

  

Teresa loves the flowers.

That goes without saying. Newt has yet to meet anyone that doesn’t actually _like_ flowers. But Teresa falls head over heels in _love_ with her little potted plant, starts cooing at them like they can understand her, and ends up buying a thousand and one books that she reads, religiously, about how to take care of her tiny pot.

“I need to expand my garden,” she tells Thomas one afternoon, who tells Newt when they’re sitting through Jeopardy reruns.

“You’ve created a fucking _monster_ man.”

Newt just tilts his head back and rolls his eyes at Thomas, mutters a quiet “ _Retribution_ ” under his breath, and says in his most American accent, “Sucks to be you man.”

Thomas looks at him, eyes narrowed. “Your American accent is horrible.” It makes Newt grin and revert his eyes to the scene on screen, even as Thomas lets out a sigh and slumps lower in his seat.

He has been sketching since he’d gotten home yesterday. Small doodles of eyes and smiles and polka dotted aprons. His table is scattered with pictures of snowdrop flowers, and he’s working on a watercolor painting of the snowdrop bouquet and the stalk of angelica next to each other in the evening sun.

 _Hope_ and _inspiration_ ; it makes Newt grin to himself. Thomas turns to him and asks with a wry twist of his mouth, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah I am,” Newt replies, absently taking a sip from the beer bottle that’s already open. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re grinning to yourself like an idiot,” Thomas says with a shrug. “ _Please_ tell me before you lose it completely. Then I can make preparations to take over your room. I’m thinking a _movie studio._ Or a gym.”

“Arsehole.”

“You sure like those, don’t you?”

The rest of the night is spent hurling insults (“You’re such a dick.” “Your _face_ looks like a dick.”) and anything that’s not breakable across the room, television forgotten. It’s mindless fun, and mindless blood pumping exhilaration, coupled with a slight booze buzz at the edges of their senses. And Newt breathes, and breathes, and breathes.

 

* * *

 

He drops by the next week with an actual pre-prepared plan.

He tells Minho that his sister is coming to visit, and he wants to get her a little something for her new house.

Minho smiles at him the same way he has the past two visits, tells him about an elderly lady who had come in earlier in the day and spent most of her afternoon staring at the roses in the corner. “It was _bizarre_ ,” he recounts as he reaches for what he’d told Newt are _stock flowers_. “She just – _stood_ there. I asked her like once or twice if she needed help. She just shook her head.”

“It must be really interesting working in a flower shop.” And Newt moves to help when Minho knocks a small box off the shelf, picking up the small scattering of petals that had fallen to the floor and placing them back in their container. “You get to meet all kinds of people.”

“Yeah,” and when Newt turns, he _swears_ there’s a flush on Minho’s face (though he’s not sure why) that makes him smirk as he hands the box back to Minho.

In a moment of blind confidence, Newt leans against the counter and asks with a small eyebrow waggle, “Like what you see?”

Minho just laughs and hands him the bouquet of pink and purple stock flowers. “Very funny Newt,” and Newt returns the grin, pushing the cash in his hand across the counter while reaching for rather large bouquet that Minho’s holding, grin growing wider when Minho ducks beneath the counter again. “Today, you get a complimentary stem of hollyhock.” It’s a rather large stem, with deep purple flowers lining either side of the plant. “To grant you fruitfulness in all your ambitions.”

“And the stock flowers?”

“They represent a bond of affection.”

“Ah,” and Newt brings the bouquet to eye level to get a better look. “Thanks again. Seriously, flowers are my new _go-tos_ for gifts nowadays.”

“No problem Newt,” Minho tells him. “See you again some time yeah? ”

“Yeah,” and he leaves with a quick wave, heart in his throat and day made infinitely better.

 

(His sister isn’t coming to town until a week later though, so he puts all the flowers in another pot and places them by the window.

They join his _plant doodles_ – as Thomas likes to call them – later that evening.)

 

* * *

 

He drops by later in the week, after work, to buy flowers for an imaginary “Aunt Petunia”.

“You don’t think petunias are the way to go?” Newt asks curiously, after their customary greetings, and Minho telling Newt about the friendly old man that’d come in earlier that day, and spent all his time discussing flower arrangements with Minho instead of buying anything.

“Unless you’re feeling anger and resentment towards her, I really don’t think it’s a good idea.”

He ends up walking out of the shop with a bouquet of yellow poppies (to wish her success and wealth) and a valerian flower (to thank him for his accommodating disposition).

 

Three weeks and five more visits (and not to mention, almost _ten_ more new beer-bottled-pants) later, he finally gets the watercolor painting done, and is pretty proud of how it turns out, if he’d say so himself.

Thomas just walks into the room, raises his eyebrows at Newt’s wide smile and the accompanying pleased look on his face, and walks back out.

 

* * *

 

That same weekend, Newt puts the painting in a giant canvas bag and heads out to the flower shop, excitement and nerves making his insides churn. “ _Hey, I did a little something for your shop_ ,” he murmurs under his breath, reciting the words he’d taken _forever_ to put together. “Easy, simple, straightforward.” The man waiting next to him at the traffic light shoots him a weird look, but Newt ignores him anyway.

The journey to the flower shop is almost a well-worn route by now, and he pushes the door open, hears the familiar little noise of the bell by the door ringing, the word _hey_ on the tip of his tongue when –

He stops dead in his tracks.

There’s a girl up by the counter, giggling as Minho leans across it and passes her single stalk of what Newt recognizes as polyanthus, and despite not being able to recall what it stands for, it makes his heart shatter in his chest.

“Oh, hey Newt,” Minho calls out to him when he looks up, but Newt’s eyes are locked on the girl still up by the counter, who’s now turned towards him with a smile. Newt can’t find it in himself to smile back.

“Sorry, looks like you’re busy,” Newt manages to force out, voice coming out surprisingly smooth and clear despite how choked and strangled he feels. “I can come back some other time.”

“No it’s good,” Minho tells him with a wave of his hand. “Jessica and I were just talking about color coordination in bouquet arrangements. You’re not interrupting anything.”

The girl, _Jessica_ , smiles wider and offers her hand to shake, while Newt finally uncurls his hand from the fist it’d been clenched in by his side and takes the proffered hand. “Nice to meet you Jessica.”

“And you, Newt.” She purses her lips and frowns. “Is that short for something?”

“My surname, Newton,” he tells her, refusing to look up and meet Minho’s eyes. “My full name is Isaac Newton.”

“Woah,” she tells him. “You must do pretty well in school huh?”

“I do okay,” he manages, and then finally turns to Minho, who is busying himself at one of the shelves. “I need some snowdrops, for a friend.”

What he actually needs is snowdrops for _himself_ , because his first bouquet is wilting and he doesn’t want them to _go_ just yet. Minho just turns to him and grins and starts assembling the flowers. “Anyway, I was telling Jessica about this kid that came by this morning – ”

“Absolutely _adorable_ ,” she chimes in, all wide-eyed and earnest.

“ – asking for a rose for this girl he likes or something,” and Minho’s moved to behind the counter to wrap up his bouquet for Newt. He finally finds it in himself to move his feet, walking towards the counter with the smile still forced on his face, Jessica trailing after him a step or two later. “I gave it to him for free, because who can deny childhood love?”

“Yeah,” Jessica pipes up, sighing wistfully from where she’s leaning against the counter watching Minho wrap the flowers up. Newt feels like he’s going to be sick. “You should throw in some yellow, makes the bouquet look brighter.”

“Hmm,” and Newt almost blurts out _no, it’s okay, keep the bouquet the same the way you’d first given it to me_. But Minho ducks under the shelves and picks some yellow tulips and adds them to the bouquet.

“See,” Jessica grins, “Much better.”

“Yeah,” Newt chuckles weakly.

“The tulips are on the house Newton,” Minho tells him with a wink, and Newt can’t even find it in himself to blush.

“Thanks, I’m sure my friend would love it,” he chokes out. He all but throws the money on the counter and then bolts the fuck out of there, canvas bag still slung over his shoulder, giving a haphazard wave when Jessica chirps out a happy “See you around Newt!”

 _Goddammit_ , he curses at himself, as he all but flies down the street once he’s out of sight from the shop. _Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck_.

The hurt in his chest doesn’t go away because _of course_ Minho is straight and _of course_ there are other customers that go into the shop and _of course_ Minho is just nice and kind and charming to them all. He isn’t a special snowflake or whatthefuckever. He’s just a customer. A goddamned customer.

He storms into the apartment, and doesn’t care that he wakes Thomas who’s napping on the couch when he slams the door shut, tossing the canvas bag into the far end of the room and whipping open the fridge.

“Dude,” Thomas groans out from his position on the sofa. “What crawled up your ass and died?”

“Nothing,” he mumbles, and takes out the cookie dough ice cream he’d been saving and the biggest spoon he can find in the drawers.

Thomas just sighs and lifts his head for Newt to sit before lying back down on his lap. “Want to talk about it?”

“No,” and he promptly shoves a giant spoonful of ice cream into his mouth.

“But you’ve been so _happy_ these past weeks. Like _on cloud nine_ happy. What the fuck happened?”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it Edison.”

“What about that dude you were seeing – ”

“ _I’m not fucking seeing anyone alright_?”

Thomas sits up at that. “That dude at the flower shop, the one who gave you all those flowers.”

“He’s straight.”

“Fuck off.”

“ _He is_.”

“He tell you that himself?” Thomas asks, arms crossed and expression challenging.

“No but there was this girl at the store today,” and Newt feels his throat tighten at the memory (because no matter what, Jessica was _really_ nice, and pretty, and cool and knowledgeable and whatever it is that makes boys like girls). “He gave her flowers too.”

Thomas sighs sympathetically. “Must make you feel like shit huh.”

Newt doesn’t need to answer that, just stuffs another mouthful of ice cream in his mouth.

“Look, but he wasn’t _dating_ her or anything – ”

“Look,” he mimics Thomas. “I’ve seen enough _straight_ people to know what they look like when they’re flirting okay. And Minho _was_ genuinely interested in her.”

Thomas sighs and lies back down.

“But it’s just a crush. A stupid fucking crush. I’ll get over it,” Newt continues, and feels Thomas reach up to pat his back in a comforting manner.

Instead, he just swallows around another mouthful of ice cream and wonders when his chest is going to stop hurting.

 

* * *

 

(He wakes up the next morning, curled up on the couch, a blanket haphazardly thrown over him. When he gets to the fridge, it’s stock full of ice cream and Newt feels a fondness in his chest.

 _Went out with Teresa,_ the note on the fridge reads. _Knock yourself out, but don’t get fat Newton_.

The canvas bag is suspiciously missing, but he doesn’t care. Instead, he puts on Family Guy and all but collapses into the nest of pillows and blankets he’d created, feeding himself more ice cream and settling in for the long haul.)

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t go by the shop for almost two weeks.

It’s stupid actually, because he _knows_ he’s being childish but he can’t help it. Worse still is that some evenings he’ll walk home from work, and find himself looking at the little shop at the corner, heart in his throat and hands clenched at his side.

(Not once does he actually cross the street and walk into the place.)

The one time he actually gets close enough to see inside, a girl comes bounding out of the shop, and Newt recognizes her as _Jessica_ and wow does that make his heart hurt.

He spends days moping about the apartment, until one day Thomas declares, “I can’t take another minute of this.” Newt glares at him, but reluctantly follows him when Thomas pulls him out of bed and herds him out of the building, blindly following him when he mutters something about “Getting Teresa a present.”

The route is too familiar, and too well worn, but Newt doesn’t realize anything is up until he sees the neat little rows of flowers by the roadside and hears the familiar ringing of a bell.

“Welcome!” and Newt just gapes at Thomas.

“What?” Thomas asks, eyes wide and hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“ _Fucking_ – ”

“Newt?” and Minho appears in the corner of his vision, and he turns to him with a grin plastered on his face.

“Hey!” and the _falseness_ of it makes even Thomas cringe.

“Haven’t seen you in awhile,” Minho tells him, smile going soft. “No more people you need to buy flowers for?”

“Uh,” and his eyes flick nervously to Thomas, who clears his throat and sticks out his hand.

“Hi, I’m Thomas, Thomas Edison.”

“Woah,” a smaller voice chirps up from the counter, and Newt looks over to see Jessica standing there and feels his heart fall in his chest. “That is so cool.”

“I know right,” Thomas tells her with a grin. “I’m here to help Newt pick out some flowers!”

“Oh god,” Newt mumbles, wanting the ground to swallow him whole (and possibly swallow Thomas too while it is at it).

“Uh, sure?” Minho asks, a little confused, looking between the two of them as Thomas grabs Newt’s hand and pulls him further into the shop.

“Are these for Newt’s girlfriend?” Jessica asks with a giggle, and Thomas laughs in reply.

“No way. Newt is about as straight as a bendy ruler.”

She furrows her eyebrows. “But bendy rulers aren’t straight – ”

“ _Exactly_.”

Newt watches as she takes it in, eyes widening and jaw dropping and expression just _surprised_ beyond belief. “You’re gay?”

“That’s Newt,” Thomas tells her with a wink and Newt finally it in himself to hit Thomas across the head, earning himself a cheeky grin as he ducks below Newt’s second blow.

“Oh man,” she sighs, leaning against the counter. “All the good looking guys are gay.”

Thomas reaches for a pot of dwarf sunflowers and stuffs them in Newt’s hand. “Not all of ‘em.”

“Well Minho here is,” she says sadly, and then brightens up. “But you’re not?”

“Sorry sweetheart,” Thomas chuckles nervously. “I’m taken.”

“Meh, that’s alright,” she says with an easy shrug. “I bet your girlfriend is super cool.”

“She sure is.”

Newt would pay more attention to the conversation if he hadn’t turned around the minute she’d said “ _Minho here is_ ” and Minho’s staring back at him with his eyes wide.

“Um, excuse me?” Thomas asks from the counter (and since when did Thomas get there?). “Can I pay for these?”

“Gimme a minute,” Minho tells him and then walks towards Newt, grips his wrist and pulls him into the back room with him.

The last thing Newt hears is a high-pitched squeal, followed by: “Oh my goodness! Is this what I think it is? That’s adorable!”

And then Thomas is making shushing noises and telling her to “Keep it down, I want to hear – ” before Minho is shutting the door and turning on the tiny light in the room.

“Hi?” Newt squeaks out.

“Hey yourself,” Minho says with a smile, one that’s smaller, more private. “At this point, will it be too forward if I ask if I can kiss you?”

“Not at all,” is all Newt gets out before Minho is leaning forward and pressing his lips against Newt’s urgently.

“Been wanting to do this since you first walked in,” Minho mumbles against his lips, and it sends tingles down Newt’s spine, making him bring his hands up to tangle in Minho’s hair as he slowly licks his way into his mouth.

They finally pull away, and Minho looks glassy eyed, lips cherry red, and Newt grins. “Me too.”

There is a knock on the door about a minute later, breaking them up again as Thomas’ voice sounds through the wood. “I really need to go, like Teresa’s waiting for me and all that. And I hate to be the one to break you two up but I don’t feel comfortable not paying for the flowers.”

“Yeah,” and Minho’s voice is a little strangled (and Newt’s reeling with the knowledge that _he’s_ the one that made Minho sound like that, _him_ ) and he grins softly at Newt before pushing the door open. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“No problem man,” Thomas says, with the most shit eating grin on his face. As Thomas pays for the flowers, Minho scribbles out his number on a name card and hands it to Newt.

“You free Friday evening? I close shop at around half-past nine.”

“I’ll come by to get you then,” Newt tells him and slips the card in his pocket. He doesn’t even care when Thomas fake-gags from behind him because he’s busy admiring the blush on Minho’s face.

“I’ll see you around Newt,” Minho calls out to him as he leaves with Thomas, sending a small wink his way.

“See you!” he calls back and grins at him as he ducks out of the shop.

 

* * *

 

(“At least you two got your shit together. Minho looked like a sad puppy when I walked in with you and then like he was going to maul me if I touched you again.”

“Fuck off,” Newt tells him, and shoves him half-heartedly, but the smile doesn’t slip off his face.

“I’m the fucking _best_ wingman in history. You’d better remember that when you two get married.”)

 

* * *

 

On their first date, Newt gives Minho the painting (which Thomas and Teresa had gone out to get _framed_ , and fucking hell Newt loves them so much), and they waste another half an hour or so trying to figure out where the best place to put it up in the shop is, before finally settling for placing it on the wall right behind the counter.

On their first date Minho tells Newt that the yellow tulips that he gave him meant _hopeless love_ , and Newt twines his fingers with Minho’s across the table and makes fun of him about it for the rest of dinner (worth it, really, when Minho blushes like there’s no tomorrow and retorts with cheesy lines like “But you _were_ my inspiration Newt”).

It’s all clichéd and romantic as fuck, but Newt really wouldn’t have it any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up at my [tumblr](http://rachelwritesfic.tumblr.com/) to leave me prompts or just to say hi!


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